


Immortuos

by Miaschyx



Series: BPS Halloween 2019 [2]
Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, BPS Event, Gen, Halloween 2019, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 05:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miaschyx/pseuds/Miaschyx
Summary: He should have brought his phone with him, but he figured a small five-minute walk wouldn’t bethatbig of a deal. He totally wouldn’t get attacked within a hundred yards of his own fucking house, no, absolutely not. Whatfucking idiotwould go into an alleyway in the middle of the night to help some homeless guy out?Marcel, that’s who.





	Immortuos

**Author's Note:**

> This was done for the BPS Halloween event, 2019. It was written last minute because I Fucked Up like the idiot I am. Enjoy!

_‘Not like this.’_

Those were the only thoughts running through Marcel’s mind.

_‘Not like this.’_

The epitome of panic, pain, anger, confusion, _terror._

This is the thanks he gets for trying to help someone out. Now he knows better. Next time, _don’t_ offer random strangers help. If he even _has_ a next time. His neck is wet and, when he pulls his hand away, covered in his blood. Marcel opens his mouth to yell, to scream, but nothing comes out except a breathy whine. The asshole has already run off, muttering to himself as he abandons his victim on the ground, leaving him light-headed and stunned.

Then the pain sets in, burning, eating from the inside out. His skin is alight even where he’s pressed back against the brick wall behind himself. Is he bleeding out? Marcel checks and frowns, blood clogging, no longer dribbling down and staining his shirt. Well…at least his death will get on the news; _‘Crazy Lunatic Bites Man on Late Night Food Run’_.

_‘They say the first sign of infection **is** stinging.’_

He best not have gotten AIDS or something.

Hot, heavy rage burns underneath his skin.

What the fuck kinda maniac just _bites_ someone trying to help them?

A fair breeze rushes against him. The temperature drops a couple degrees, causing him to shiver and shudder, tucking himself into a ball on the grotty ground. Lightning darts across him, from his hands to his toes to his torn-open neck.

Was the guy delusional? Did he believe he was a fucking vampire or something? Read one too many Twilight novels and now he thinks he can drink blood and sparkle in the sun.

Another tooth-grinding shudder of pain wracks through him, dragging a pained gasp and groan from his lips. He squints his eyes to look down at his hands, skin lightening. Shit, he’s lost more blood than he realizes…

He should have brought his phone with him, but he figured a small five-minute walk wouldn’t be _that_ big of a deal. He totally wouldn’t get attacked within a hundred yards of his own fucking house, no, absolutely not. What _fucking idiot_ would go into an alleyway in the middle of the night to help some homeless guy out?

Marcel, that’s who.

“Fuck…” His voice comes out a whisper and his vision blurs. Marcel scrubs at his face, trying to rub the tears away. He can’t, he can’t, he’s gonna fucking _die_ in some ugly ass alley with a pocket of chocolate and half his neck eaten.

What if he really _was_ a vampire?

He’s quick to shake the idea from his head, snorting. He’s lost so much fucking blood he’s going delirious.

His hands won’t stop shaking, breath shuddering as he inhales. His skull pounds, thumping with every beat of his heart, slowing.

_‘No, no, don’t slow down, **don’t slow down, not like this!**’_

Marcel bites down on a petrified sob, smacks his head against the brick wall behind himself, and stares upwards. Too much light pollution; he can’t see the stars. He wants this as the last sight he sees; a pretty night sky. He’d rather have his friends and family, but beggars can’t be choosers.

_‘They sure as hell **can** be murderers!’_

He shakes harder, breath becoming softer, lighter.

Marcel never considered himself the praying type, but if there was some that would come and save him, he would forever be indebted.

His gaze grows hazy around the edges, tunnel-vision, and shrinks even more.

Marcel sighs with defeat and tries to inhale. His body refuses to move. He gasps with empty-lungs and stares, wide-eyed. The few specks he _can_ see fade from sight.

_‘So is this death?’_

The first thing he notices is the coiling swirl of unease.

Then the saliva pooling within his mouth.

Marcel doesn’t even look as he falls to the left and retches, hurling his earlier dinner onto the ground. _‘Well, it’s nice to meet you again, spaghetti bolognese.’_ It tastes _horrid,_ but he’s hungry again. Or is it thirsty? Both.

When he snaps his eyes open, he finds himself still in the alleyway, kneeling over the floor. The moon shines overhead. Light from the streetlamp illuminates his vomit sitting on the ground.

Marcel yanks himself away from it. He teeters and catches himself before he can face-plant into concrete.

_‘Stupid fucking dizzy, light-headed bullshit!’_

Footsteps thud across the pavement on the street to his right. A familiar voice calls out, “Marcel? Hello?”

_‘Scotty!’_

A surge of energy pulses through him, pushing him to his feet as he stumbles and scrambles to get out of the alleyway, wiping at his wet mouth.

As soon as he’s on the sidewalk, Scotty spots him. His surprise morphs into fear. The man hurries towards Marcel, oblivious to the other’s searching gaze, wondering where that homeless guy disappeared to.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” he asks, wide-eyed as he takes in Marcel’s bloodied, frazzled state.

Marcel parts his lips to respond and squeaks out, “Some…”

“C’mon, hey, you okay?” Scotty questions, reaching out to touch the blood on the side of his neck, pulling away to find it already dried. “C’mon, let’s go home and take a shower. We’ll call the police later.” He nods and makes a couple hand gestures around his mouth before Scott asks, “You need something to drink? And eat? Didn’t you just have dinner?” Marcel huffs. His friend laughs. “Yeah, we can do that.” Scotty sets his palm against his back, ushering him towards his apartment.

Marcel doesn’t know if it’s because Scotty hasn’t showered today, but he smells. Not _horrible,_ but he notices it more than before. He assumes he has his adrenaline to thank for heightened senses. For now, he looks forward to taking a nice, hot shower and getting all this blood off. Then he can patch up his neck and tell the cops what happened.

If they’ll believe him.

His hunger kicks in again, stomach growling, and Scotty laughs at him, saying some joke. Marcel doesn’t hear as he stares at his friend. He has chocolate in his pocket, but it’s not appealing. At all. He feels as if he would much rather eat something fresher.

Does Scotty have anything on him?

Marcel shakes his head, forcing his gaze away from him and down towards the pavement. He struggles to even out his breath, watching every step, focus intent on Scotty. Marcel’s clothes rustle as he enjoys the warm hand resting on his spine.

_‘Well, that’s gay.’_

He sighs with relief when they finally arrive home, waiting for Scotty to unlock the front door and hold it open for him.

A strong scent catches his attention. Marcel whips his head around, starting his friend as he lets the door shut.

Scotty has only a second before he finds himself pressed up against the hallway wall

“What are you doing?” he asks nervously, a confused laugh on his tongue.

Marcel blinks at him, stares, and tries to speak yet again before scowling, unable to tell him what happened, what’s _happening._ His gaze drops from his eyes, his lips, his chin, to his neck.

Fuck, he _was_ a vampire.

He hears Scott ask him something else, worry in his tone, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his heartbeat, blood pumping under paling skin. Mouth parched and throat aching, he knows it’ll make him feel better.

He doesn’t notice when he grabs Scotty by the wrists, pinning him against the wall. Marcel can’t hear the way his friend’s voice pitches higher, can’t think of anything other than tasting him, leaning in closer towards his neck.

A breath away, Scotty struggles against him, brow furrowed, before he goes still.

“Marcel?”

He doesn’t respond.

He sinks his teeth in.

Scotty’s scream rings in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
